


Kelpie in the Ironweed

by gimmeshellder



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Pearl (Steven Universe), Drugs, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Rose is like 70 percent an asshole, Tags to be added, Vaguely Supernatural, armchair geology, big touch-starved queer energy, blue collar tourism, maybe too many americana references??? ymmv, the extremely specific 90s Appalachian AU literally no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-29 21:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20089138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: Rose has always had eclectic tastes, but uhhhh. The ecoterrorism is new.





	1. the Bourbon, the Sugar, the Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Literally no one asked for this but by god yall gettin it
> 
> _finger guns_

Rose always gets her hopes too high. 

Her best bet of a fun time tonight was running into Denise -- whipsmart, easygoing, more often than not a willing partner in crime. But she had moved three states over when she married last year, plus two kids, and med school? Maybe. Maggie was at a wedding; Anna had a funeral; Melody was in Portugal, or Brazil, or maybe Spain. Mingling provides an osmosis of information both extensive and vague and Jesus, Rose is going to need something stronger than champagne.

The dashing, glossy, mare-silver alumni invitations have gone straight into the trash for years. But now with Bella on the board, Rose can’t quite say no. _ It’s glaring, is all, _ she wheedled over the phone last week, and Rose could see her face pulling sorrowful in the kitchen counter, _ my baby sister a graduate and never even showing once _ and _ You spent years with these people _ and _ You know, it might even be fun. _

But Rose didn’t say yes with high hopes of seeing the equestrian club president or the head of wine-tasting, or whoever the fuck. All she could picture was the July when she was twelve, and Bella nineteen, smuggling the both of them out past curfew for a convertible ride when it was too damn hot to sleep. They spent twenty minutes making sure it was parked exactly as they found it, and planted the keys like jewel thieves in reverse. 

Yeah. That’s worth a try. Another round of that sounds fun.

Shimmery glass startles her out of the wool-gathering -- a server with a platter of champagne. She waves him off, smiling -- but reconsiders and snags another flute from the tray. It may as well be carrot juice for all the buzz she’s feeling but it’s a handy prop against the crowd of suits.

“That’s not Rose, is it?”

When Rose turns it takes a second for the face to fall into place: mousy hair, pretty teacup mouth, ten years ago puffy and snotted in the bathroom where Rose found her. Dead dog, if she remembers right.

Her arms go wide. “There she is! Hey girl, get over here!” 

The woman laughs quietly and leans in. _ Leeann, _Rose’s brain finally summons as they hug, careful not to spill her champagne. They never quite ran in the same circles but they looked out for each other after Rose found her there, crying a mess after a letter from home broke the news. That’s right: Rose remembers more. She made tea, looked at pictures, let her talk about it. From that day Rose always had an ally on the other side of the hall.

A man mills too close as they hug. Rose cuts her eyes at him from over Leeann’s shoulder. A big sour cream blond fellow, banker’s haircut, chunky German watch he’s checked twice in twenty seconds. 

“Whoa, hi there,” Rose shields them with a hand as he steps even closer. “Champagne for the lady, please.”

His mouth flattens as Leeann laughs, tapping Rose’s shoulder. “He’s with me! This is my fiance, Leonard.” 

Rose ignores the extended hand and half-curtsies, shrugging behind a sip by way of apology. 

“Leonard, this is Rose. She was always the wild one. Sort of…” Her hand fans in the shape of _ something, _ “... marches to her own drum.” 

“I see.” He smiles tightly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Speaking of, I never see you at these things.” Leeann’s taken to wearing contact lenses over glasses. The shape of her eyes is changed completely but Rose can’t say how. “What brought you around?”

“Ah, I wanted to finally check it out! Could be fun, I thought.” She grins through the lie. 

“Well, what have you been up to? You went into college straight after graduating.” 

“I did,” Rose says, with delicacy. 

“Theatre, right?” 

“Mmm, yeah... for a semester.” Rose gives a rueful grin. “Funky freshman mono struck around January, so it benched me.”

Leonard clears his throat, but Leeann is not deterred. “But then you went into history? If I remember right.”

A server whirls by with a tray of champagne and Rose scoops one up to pass to Leeann. She takes it, and goes to sip, just before Leonard’s hand plucks it from her fingers to place it back on the server’s tray. He scowls at the server, big hand waving them off.

Oh, this fucking guy.

“Yep! Dropped that one too. And poli sci after that.” It almost comes out a chirp. “I know. Such a shame. Just can’t help _ gghhkkk _ \--” Rose cinches a hand over her throat, eyes rolling and tongue lolling. “-- _ choking _!”

Leeann laughs, head shaking. When Leonard’s arm comes around her shoulder she looks up to his expression and trails off. 

“Well, we aren’t getting younger,” Leonard says. “What do you want to be at the 10-year reunion?”

“Fiddle-dee-dee, for that is another day. But enough about me.” Rose fixes Leeann with a pointedly not-at-Leonard look. “Tell me what you’ve got cooking lately.” 

“Well, Leonard proposed --”

“In February. I’m an investment broker.” He holds his big ol' paw out once again. “You know, you never shook my hand.”

Rose hums, finishing her glass. “Excuse me,” Rose cups the elbow of a passing server with a tidy mustache, depositing her glass on the tray and taking another, “y’all got any beer back there?”

“Isn’t she something?” Leeann says, laughing a bit quieter.

“She’s a riot.” 

“Someone’s got to be,” she says. “You’re kind of sucking the air out of the room.”

“Rose…” Leeann goes even quieter.

“You’re being extremely rude.”

“Take the hint then, damn.” Her hand whips, like she’s shooing a bird. They’re attracting stares. “Let the two of us talk on our own.”

“Both of you, please.”

“Leeann, darlin’, this guy is a micromanaging dipshit.” Rose’s look is deadpan. “You can do better.”

Conversation nearby has simmered lower and faces turn, but Rose can only focus on the sinking expression on Leeann’s. Too late, she realizes it’s disappointment.

“It was good seeing you, Rose.” With a parting look, she filters back into the crowd. Leonard follows, chin high, tugging his lapels.

Well, fuck. _ That’s _not what she was going for. Rose watches the back of Leeann’s head disappear in the snowdrift of gowns and chintzy tuxedos. 

“I heard Rose Quartz was over here, but I didn’t believe it!”

Shit. It’s Douglas. 

He goes in for a hug and Rose pulls her champagne flute between them, sloshing between their chests. She pulls back with a Kleenex laugh. “Oh, whoops! Watch out!”

“Uh, sorry,” he says, swiping napkins down his front. “Clumsy.” 

Douglas isn’t a bad guy. He’s persistent, but he’s not an asshole. His family’s loaded up with big swathes of land that butt up right nextdoor to Rose’s, which he found suitable as grounds to propose marriage every few months. But like… he was never a _ dick _about it. After the fourth rejection he stopped framing it as some grand, generationally fated romance and instead a business proposal, which Rose can appreciate. Makes it easier to ignore.

“... got us three months behind in that development, there,” she finds herself hearing, minutes later, watching the stain on Douglas’s front. “Keep an eye out is all I can say.”

More alumni have filtered in by now. Little trays of hors d’oeuvres have joined the champagne flutes, banquet tables now filling with supper dishes. How long has she been in here? 

Douglas’s mouth moves but Rose can’t quite process. The sawdust conversation is frothy, all around. It’s like sitting in a construction site.

Halfway through his next sentence, Rose blurts, “Don’t you get bored with it?”

“Pardon?”

Sudden, bald eagerness eats its way up her chest and into her mouth, sharp and inexplicable as a charleyhorse. Rose sets her glass on a windowsill hard enough to chip and leans in close. “Aren’t you bored? Aren’t you bored to absolute tears?” Her hands find their way on his shoulders and Doug balks. “Isn’t this miserable?”

Doug’s mouth opens and closes. He might be leaning away, just slightly. “It’s not... the _ best _party we’ve had, I think. But it could be worse?”

Rose stares. Then she laughs. It’s not a good laugh. She has to push it out, like passing a stone. “Man, yeah. You’re right.” Her hands slip from his shoulders. “It could be way worse.”

Douglas’s smile hangs at one side, uncertain. Rose has never agreed with anything he’s said. “It… could be worse!”

Rose laughs, “It could be so much fucking worse!”and Douglas joins her. He straightens, chest puffing, and wets his lips to start in on another topic, maybe even another proposal, which is when Rose turns and walks away. 

The champagne is too headachy sweet. And the wall of noise is like nursing a bad tooth. She needs water. Maybe it will dilute some of her quiet, spiraling cantankerousness. 

Halfway to the refreshment table, a hand takes her by the shoulder and Rose grunts, turning. “Oh, hi, sis.”

Bella got swept up with pinch hitting the second they made it through the doors but here she is. Rose can see Bella’s displeasure. She’s usually pretty good at hiding it. “What’s up?”

“Are you having fun?” 

Rose lets breath out through her nose slowly. “Honestly?” Then chuckles through a grim smile. “Not really. I didn’t expect there to --”

Bella cuts her off. “Rose. You don’t need to be here.” 

The sharpness of it backs Rose up by a half step. “Whoa! Hang on a minute.” She squints into her sister’s face, levering. “Who here pulled the ‘I never ask you for anything’ line?”

“Well. I don't.” What the fuck? She hasn’t looked at Rose like this in years. “And I never will again if this is how you’re going to behave. You’ve been here an hour and you’ve already made a scene."

The crowd has filled out further: old faces and ones unrecognizable. Doctors, lawyers, business executives, trust fund babies. Rose turns on her heel as she breathes. To take in a panorama. Thinking. “Why did you want me here?” 

“Look around, Rose.” Oh, the melodrama. Her ardor chafes. “You haven’t seen these people in years. _ Everyone _ you see is going somewhere, or already there. Doesn’t it bother you?” Her hand comes up to Rose’s cheek, pleading. “Seeing everyone else on their way?”

The wording… it rattles some little patch in Rose’s brain, something she heard from --

Oh. Oh, for fuck’s sake. _ That’s _what this is about? 

Rose can’t help but hiss, anger sizzling her teeth. “_Mom _put you up to this.”

Bella’s mouth tightens. Oh, yeah, man, fucking bullseye. “Rose, you don’t --”

“When are you and Yva going to stop letting her fuck with your heads?”

Silverware clatters; faces turn. Bella pales and fails to hush her. “Lower your voice.”

But Rose is back to scoffing, smiling sharp. “You two are really something else! It doesn’t matter that she’s finally laid up if you two keep dancing along with her -- _goddamn_ flying monkey routine --” 

Rose is snatched up by the wrist and led away, Bella livid. Well, fucking good! Rose is also livid! She bores holes in the back of her head as Bella pulls her along. Once they make it to a calmer corner by the kitchens, Bella wheels on her. 

“_Listen. _ Listen to me.” Her hand comes up to Rose’s cheek again, trembling this time. The sincerity in her voice is enough to quiet Rose. “We’re _ worried _ about you, Rose. _ I’m _ worried about you. You’re aimless. You’re drifting. And it’s awful to watch.” Her voice hints at cracking. “There’s no way of telling what dangerous spot you’ll end up in next.” 

And she is: Rose can see that. That she’s worried; that she cares; that she loves her, in her own way. In the best way she can.

Of all of them, Bella has always been the most likely and most willing to have Rose’s back.

Her other hand comes up: cups her cheek, too. Pleading with her. “Can’t you let yourself accept some help?”

But that isn’t saying much.

Rose’s hands come up, too. She pulls Bella’s away. “It isn’t help if no one tells me about it.”

Bella wilts in on herself. It’s the look she would wear when sidelining a whip-the-dog session. “You don’t have to stay, Rose. Just don’t lose your temper like -- wait -- _ Rose! _” 

But she’s already weaving through a cluster of servers to the kitchen. She tries to time her entry; there’s too many people flitting in and out with dinner service underway. Someone bumps into her, something spills, oops, and somewhere behind Bella is still calling after her.

“Hello! Hi there.” Rose waves as she elbows into the doorway, trying and failing not to block traffic. The staff regard her with wariness. An older bald gentleman approaches with his palms up, looking keen to shoo her out. 

“Sorry, I know you’re all busy. I’m Rose.” She fishes out her bill fold and empties it on one of the tables. “And I will give you… let’s see... $387 for a bottle of bourbon.”

“Rose, for _ God’s _sake.”

All they have is Wild Turkey. 

“Rose, give me that.” But there’s no authority in Bella’s voice. Just a kind of exhaustion. The cork comes out with a frail little ‘pop!’ and Rose plants it in Bella’s open palm as she whishes by, taking a first swig. 

Whatever distractions may have smokescreened them during their bickering are no longer effective. All eyes follow Rose as she makes her way to the door, questioning looks, nervous laughter, Bella trailing and hissing all combination of threats, pleas and guilt trips. The memos must be stacking on her desk as they speak.

At the lip of the foyer, Rose pauses; she catches Leeann’s eye. The gaggle of socialiates gawk as Rose pours some Wild Turkey in an evidently Leonard-approved glass of cola. Rose winks and stagewhispers, “You’ll need this more than me.”

And then she’s gone, shouldering upstream out towards the valet booth. She trudges right past, making it to the lawn just as Bella calls out from the door.

“_Where are you going?_”

“Back!” 

“I drove you here!”

Rose’s arms go wide but she doesn’t turn. “I’ll figure something out!”

Bella looks on. Her hands flap, helpless. “Those are my shoes.”

Bottle seesawed high to her lips, Rose lifts her dress one-handed to better ankle-scrape the designer shoes off and away. The lawn is not meant to be walked on, much less littered with $2,000 lumps of resin, but Rose nonetheless leaves a plodding goatpath of escape through the manicured grass.

Alumni continue to filter in. They gawp from Mercedes and Rolls Royces and Rose waves, toasting. Let the poor bastards have their party. Maybe now they’ll have something to talk about.

She gets to the main road not long after. Her thumb isn’t out for fifteen seconds before a Chevrolet comes to a stop on the curb: the driver is maybe 60s, Steelers cap, tobacco stain, passenger looks like his son. They stare at her like a woman on fire.

Rose gestures to roll down the window, giving her warmest smile. “Hi there! My name’s Rose.” She makes a show of peering in the back. “Y’all heading to Bluebrier?

“Well… yes. But…” The driver peers out at her through the windshield. “Ma’am, were you in an accident?”

“For awhile now, yeah. Don’t mind if I hop in the back!”

Rose is cranky getting in the next morning. She can’t drink like she did in college. Dumbass. When she clocks in, flubbing her lips, she fails to notice a guest at her elbow and jumps. “Jesus! John, fuck’s sake.” 

The new kid: Johnathan. _ Not John, _ he insisted, meeting the first day. _ When you tell people your name’s John they wanna call you Jim or George or something like. _All that will fit on his nametag is “John” though, so he’s stopped correcting people.

And he’s entirely too chipper. “So how did it go yesterday?”

“Ugh.” 

“That’s too bad.” He looks pleased. “But your shift went okay. Manager was impressed I didn’t need the training.”

Rose makes a polite hum, sort of listening. Her timecard didn’t go through right.

“I’ve worked a register before, at the Ralph’s a few towns over. Wasn’t as nice there.”

Rose smiles. Nods. Continues wrestling with her timecard.

“So, listen,” John starts, and oh no, “are you seeing anyone?”

“Oh, good!” She slaps the clock machine with an echoing clunk. “It. Works!” Rose smiles tightly. “You should punch in, too.”

“Spare yourself, kid.” Andrea comes up behind, slotting in her own timecard and punching in. “Rose only dates assholes.”

“Mmm -- and my, Andrea, aren’t you looking _ cute _today.” She bounces her eyebrows and earns an eyeroll.

“What are we doing, layabouting in the backroom?” Marianne appears in the doorway, peering into the relative dark. She must have left her glasses at the service desk again. She claps knotty hands together twice, sharp, sending the skin on her arms shivering. “On the floor, come on. Rose, you’re on 5, Andrea take express.”

“You got it, boss lady.” Rose shoots Andrea a smirk. Andrea _ hates _express. 

“We missed some of your paperwork,” Marianne says to John. She clears her throat thunderous, and scoops a hand as she limps past the backroom, towards the office. “C’mon now.”

Johnathan turns back to Rose, and mimes sipping coffee as Marianne leads him away. Rose gives him a little wafery finger twiddle that turns into a dust-off once he’s rounded the corner. Come on, guy.

It’s still early enough that Rose can hold down 5 on her own. A 30-something white guy in a crisp shirt comes in, looking harried, with a big pack of gum, trail mix, shoe polish and fresh socks. Out-of-towner. Business trip a few hours out, maybe. No idea about the socks though. A discreet look as he hustles out shows he didn’t step in a puddle or anything. Huh. Maybe… oh, ew. 

Rose likes to think of it as human math, the little puzzle games she gets to do with customers. What they’re wearing, buying. How they talk. But it does backfire at times.

She’s still navel-gazing when ten jars of peanut butter unload on the belt. She startles, laughing a little. “Sorry sir, I was off on Mars.” 

She gets a good look at him and holds back on the _ Doing alright today? _His hair is tufted from where he’s been running his fingers through it under his DEEPMINE #26 cap. Hunched shoulders. Long mouth. Jaw sticking out like a sinkful of dishes.

Not the type of person in the mood for banter. 

Rose runs each jar over the scanner in silence, and quietly reads the total. As he digs through his wallet for exact change, she can’t help but ask, “Hard morning, sir?” 

He grunts. “Laid off.” 

It adds up: he smells like a mine. Rose couldn’t place it at first. “I’m sorry to hear it.” 

He ignores her. That’s fair. But when he takes his receipt and bag he nods a thank you.

Rodney clocks in not long after and Marianne adds him on 5. Good. Rose likes Rod. He’s quiet, but friendly, and he scares off the creeps. Rose gives him a wide smile as he saunters up. “Good morning! How’s your back doing, Rod?”

“Oh, I’m alright.” He pulls his ball cap lower over his eyes, fidgeting. “Threw something out picking up my granddaughter.”

He leans, gargoyling at the end of the lane. Says it takes the pressure off his back but there’s no way the problem isn't getting hot-potatoed up to his neck and shoulders. 17 years in coal mine “operations” -- whatever that meant that day -- over by Highrise, and made good money for the area. Until a methane pocket sent him crashing into five broken vertebrae, four fractured ribs, and whatever else he didn’t feel like revealing to Rose. 

Rod ain’t young. Rose would bet these things hurt more, not less with age. 

She’s wiping down the ectoplasm left by a leaky pack of chicken when she asks him, “You ever think of managing?” 

His eyebrows pull up. Sure, the question’s abrupt. “No, ma’am.” 

“Something like Marianne does. Less on your feet, more at a desk. You know? More chances for breaks.” Belt de-gunkified, Rose tosses the stack of wipes in her trash bin. She adds, soft and conspiring, “Though, don’t have me repeat that around Marianne.”

Rod grins. But doesn’t say anything. And then a mother with a newborn is pulling into the lane. (Baby food, big wonder.) It’s only once her cart is rolling out to the parking lot that Rose revisits. “I bring it up because I’d like to see you doing something a bit easier on you.”

Rodney’s frown deepens when he coughs into his elbow. It’s a deep, meaty cough, an old man’s cough. Too old to be here with a bunch of dumb kids and 20-somethings. But somehow the union’s hands were tied over his early pension, and his company found some loophole to stiff him on injury pay. He’ll likely work until the day he dies. When he comes in from rounding up carts, Rose can hear the rasp in his lungs of leftover coal. Like a slow tearing.

“Work’s work,” he huffs, more gruffly than he’s accustomed to being with Rose. He pulls his cap over his eyes and she accepts the end of the conversation.

He won’t even ask Marianne for a chair. Jeez. Big tough mountain boys. 

The mystifying macho code for the men in the area gets them killed. It starts young, too, “MOUNTAIN PROUD” onesies popping up as a package deal with “FRIEND OF COAL” bumper stickers. It’s the worst kind of frustrating to watch. Especially when the end result has such ample evidence all over, from the respirators to the light numbers on headstones. And Rose _ still _ saw a solid third of the boys around her -- even in community college classes! -- apply to mines over in Highrise, or Chestercreek, or Buchanan, or all over. 

It pays better than most things. From what Rose can tell. But it feels like part of Rodney misses working underground -- and not just for the pay.

Thinking of kids summons a couple to her lane. She’s a little concerned about the two thirteen-year-olds buying candy at 11 a.m., until she remembers it’s summer. 

She rings up Pop-Rocks, gummy bears, gummy worms, Snickers, Baby Ruths, an enormous bag of M&Ms she didn’t even know they stocked, and those hideous little white and purple licorice turds. No accounting for taste.

“You know, we have a sale on toothpaste today,” Rose tells them as she rings up the total. Rod chuckles. 

The two boys stare at her for a moment wordlessly. Then they huddle -- they _ huddle _\-- for a moment of private discussion. Rose cocks an eyebrow at Rod, who shrugs. 

They regroup, hold out the cash, and get back their change. One of them elbows the other as he tucks the change in his pocket. “Do you have a tip jar?”

Rose shoots another look at Rod, lips twitching. “No, sir. We sure don't.”

“What’s your bra size?” the other one asks. 

“Hey!” Rod barks. 

Hmmm.

“I’m happy to pass the answer along through your mama next time she’s in here, sir.” Rose answers, watching the panic leap to his face. “She’s got the red hair, right? Nice nails all the time? You’re usually in here with her.”

They almost scramble out without their bag of loot.

“Little shits,” Rod spits. His ears are red. 

His granddaughter must be around that age. Rose considers him. “What do you tell April?” She’s pretty sure her name is April. “About boys talking like that. 

He grunts. “Her daddy says she’s too young for a knife." 

Big tough mountain boys. “And what’s her mama say?”

“Says her favorite color’s green.”

Rose laughs.

“Rod? You’re on break, sugar.” Marianne rounds the corner, flipping through her clipboard. “John, go hop on 5 with Rose.”

Shit. 

He wheels around from the service desk, giving that chin-out nod like he’s passing a soccerball. Rose stretches on a smile.

“So, I gotta ask.” He hunches over the end of the lane, drumming his hands. “Why are you here?”

“Ain’t that just the question, John?” She dimples her cheek with a finger. “Why _ are _we here?”

“No, I mean. Isn’t your family filthy rich?”

Shit. 

“Did you drive your parent’s car to work?” she asks. 

He scoffs, smiling. “Well… _ no, _ but --”

“Yeah. It doesn’t quite work like that, does it?”

“Well, _ no, _ but you don’t exactly _ need _ to work, now, do you?”

“Hi there!” Rose chirps to the family nosing towards her lane, “Come on down! Y’all find everything okay?”

She’s too annoyed to play her little human math game. Halfway through ringing up grapes, she glances up to see Andrea watching her from express. 

Rose’s eyes roll an S.O.S. down the lane towards the bagstand. Andrea shrugs. _ Good luck! _But she looks amused. Damn her.

“They could probably set you up with something really cushy,” John picks up after they’re gone. “Why here?”

“Work’s work.” Rose says, airily. 

“Ask Rose about her degrees,” Andrea whispers as she passes by for the bathroom.

Ughhhhh.

“Can we get that coffee tomorrow?”

“I said I would _ buy _ you a coffee.” Her lecture finger goes up. “You’re reading into this too much.”

“What,” he scoffs a laugh, _ that’s _an annoying quality, “you’re just gonna stand outside and drink yours? Watch me through the window?”

Rose isn’t up to snark. She breathes in through her nose, quiet. “You’re a sweet guy, John.” She reaches across to pat his cheek. He needs a shave. “Try not to fuck that up.” 

“So next week?” Incredible. Totally unperturbed.

Oh well. “Sure.” No one can say Rose never tried. “Week from today it is.” 

He gets pulled away to another lane by Marianne. Andrea hung back to eavesdrop, apparently, because she’s suddenly in Rose’s ear. She’s hunched over the next lane over, trying not to laugh. "Maybe he's a good fit after all."

“Rose, can you handle the orphans?” Marianne asks, pointing an elbow at the cart full of bits and bobs. “I got a gap here in the schedule.”

“You got it, boss lady.” 

Rose likes doing the “go-backs.” It’s satisfying to put things where they go. On a good day, she can piece together some sort of story about whoever brought it up front. Sometimes it’s cheating if it’s something from her lane, but sometimes she gets to guess. Someone planned to walk off with it, but something came up. 

She turns the corner.

Case of Heineken for the beer aisle. One of Rose’s. A woman’s card wouldn’t cover the beer_ and _ the pack of lunchmeat.

She turns the corner.

Someone _ did _take advantage of that toothpaste sale… but thought better of buying eighteen. 

She turns the corner.

A little boy made a stowaway of a bag of chocolate chips, thinking his mother wouldn’t notice.

She turns the corner and pauses.

There’s a punk rocker, hovering by the spice rack. Or, wait -- no, it’s not the spiky sort, just a big chunky bomber jacket. The kind mechanics like to wear. He’s got mussy hair, maybe dyed? Wait, no -- just an interesting tigery-ginger. Not typically the type to linger in the bakery aisle, even if he’s not a punk rocker.

It’s a funny image: Billy Idol type fella, seemingly lost in thought comparing two bottles of vanilla.

The basket by his feet is stacked with eight sacks of white sugar. Just get a cart at that point, honey. 

Rose’s lips twitch as she pushes forward again, wheels squeaking. No bakery aisle orphans. “Finding everything alright, sir?” 

He jumps a little at her voice, and turns, and Rose nearly doubles over with embarrassment to see that she’s a woman. She feels the spidery itch of a blush and laughs, a little too loudly.

“Oh, wow! I’m so sorry!” She laughs again. “You caught me by surprise.” That makes zero sense. It makes zero sense, because Rose talked to her first. 

The woman doesn’t seem to take offense. But she does stare at Rose for a second too long. 

“F… fine. It’s fine.” She turns back to the bottles of vanilla.

“An old boyfriend of mine had a jacket just like yours,” Rose lies. “It’s a sharp style. Looks good on you!”

The woman (girl? how old? Rose can’t place her) shifts like there’s rocks in her boots. A few agonizing seconds pass before she mumbles “yeah,” still turned away.

Normally Rose would poke around more. But she’s too embarrassed. Isn’t she supposed to be good at reading people? 

“Alright! That’s wonderful.” Rose pumps her fist in the air. Why did she do that? What the hell. “When you’re ready, you can find me up front.”

She feels the woman’s eyes on her as she retreats down the aisle. 

God, that’s humiliating. One of those sparrowy little lesbians who looks kind of like a teenage boy. There were a few in the colleges Rose perused but they tend to migrate to the coast right after graduating. An endangered species, out here in the sticks.

Rose finishes up the rest of the orphans (albeit sans backstories; all the blood had left her brain to take up in her face) but she’s composed and cool in the cheeks again as she finally makes it back to her register.

She’s breaking new change into her cash drawer when Ms. Punk Rocker starts watching her from the end of aisle 8. Rose pretends not to notice. 

Hasn’t flirted with another woman in awhile. Maybe she doesn’t read as queer enough, but it’s almost always men. And she _ is _cute, in that boyish kind of way. Long legs. Sulky chin. Princely sort of face. Rose would love to take a comb to her hair.

More than anything, Rose wants to know what her deal is. 

“Hi again!” She waves. The woman jumps a little. “All set? I’m ready when you are.”

The woman’s expression up to now could generously be called a blank stare. But maybe Rose is thawing her out, because she nods in a deferential sort of way as she loads the belt with her items. 

Rose’s lips twitch. Sixteen pounds of sugar and a single bottle of vanilla extract. “Yummm. What are we making?”

Her hand pauses halfway to setting the basket under the belt. “... bread.”

Awful lot of sugar for bread. Rose tamps down her eyebrow. “That right? What kind?”

“... it’s an experiment.” Her shoulders are damn near in her ears. Chin on her chest. 

_ Up, head up! Let me get a better look at you. _

“Oooh, let me know how it turns out. Unless you’re from out of town?”

The woman flickers a glance to her feet and rubs the back of her neck. “... kind of.”

“Ah, mysterious type. _ I _see.” Rose makes a throaty sound. When it brings Ms. Punk Rock’s chin up again, Rose winks. 

She doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. But it gives Rose her first square look at her.

“Oh, wow, your eyes are _ gorgeous! _” she gushes, leaning in. Ghostly, foggy blue. Like someone changed the paintwater but didn’t quite get it all. "Are they blue or grey?"

But her customer doesn’t say anything. For a moment it looks like she’s burned her tongue before her eyes dart away again -- and turns wooden-faced down to the counter.

Cute. It’s not often Rose is the one chasing. 

“No dice, huh?” Rose leans, propped on her elbow on the register. She’s close enough to see each eyelash. Her voice goes softer. “I can usually get _ at least _a smile when I flirt.”

There we go. That gets a reaction. She takes a step back, even -- shifts in her boots, casting a look around like she’s searching for witnesses. Her chin dips, then snaps up again. Her throat bobs. Are her ears going pink? Oh, that’s fucking cute.

She tries for eye contact again and _ must _be dredging up a smile. It looks like she just had a root canal. “H… how much?”

Rose takes the total and gives her change. Their hands don’t brush -- her customer’s too quick. Oh, wow. This transcends shyness. This is outright adolescent terror. Rose tries to hunch even closer, like a new angle will give her an answer. “How old are you?”

“Thanks,” the girl croaks, fumbling for her bags. “Thank you.”

She sweeps away towards the exit before Rose can get another word in. She cups a hand around her mouth: “Hey, if it works out, bring me the recipe!”

Not likely. Cute queers don’t really stick around here. She’s probably headed back to the coast even now.

Oh well.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The little get-together the night before already had Rose waking up feeling like an unplugged tub. But when Rose sees two deputies around the service counter on Monday, her guts go mealy. 

Fucking Andrea. She decided to put up some cokehead friends from Florida and not mention that to anyone else there, fucking _ Andrea, _Rose wanted no part of it. She lit out the minute she could; maybe not soon enough. 

But Rose knows how this goes. She keeps natural -- keeps her stride smooth and waves, ogling with an appropriate amount of polite nosiness. 

“... can pull the records if you really want, but our computer system takes its sweet time,” Marianne grouses. Monday is when she handles the bank deposits and she’s already behind. “The only other person that’s been up front is Rose.”

Rose takes the summons. She steps closer, eyes wide. “Morning officers.”

“Ma’am." 

“Everything okay? Someone hurt?”

“No ma’am.” The older one clears his throat. “Have you seen anyone purchasing a large amount of Coca-cola, syrup, sugar, anything real sweet like that? This past week or so.”

Her lungs squeeze.

But Rose keeps her face thoughtful. She waits two seconds before answering. “Well… if you want me to list all the people buying gobs of soda pop, we’ll be here awhile. It’s cheaper than water most of the time.”

He nods slowly. Sucks his teeth. When he turns his badge shows DAVIS. "Nevermind them receipts, ma’am."

Marianne is only too glad to.

Davis takes his time, loading his words carefully. “I suppose the real question we’re asking is anyone _ suspicious _ buying these things in the past week or so. Mamas on grocery runs, not so much.” His arms cross as he regards her, feet square. He cut himself shaving recently. “Someone looking out of place. Folks you don’t recognize, perhaps.” 

Rose dimples her cheek with a finger, thinking _ very hard… _then shakes her head. “I can’t say I have. Sorry, fellas. Anyone we should be looking out for?”

The younger officer (LOUGHRAN) chimes in for the first time, eggy-voiced with allergies. “_I _ expect it’s a few dumb high school boys looking up pranks on the computer.” He clears his throat wetly. “Damned summertime. Maybe three or four all in a group, maybe just the one buying. But _ wheewww -- _ sure they’ll get the fire beat out of them once their parents get the bill.”

"I don't know if I believe about high school boys being this consistent,” Davis grunts. “And driving far as Cypress for the same damn prank."

"Maybe _ you _weren't that kind of high school boy."

This is a point of contention, apparently. Davis glowers but doesn’t press the point. He turns back to Rose, softening. “Anyway, if you see anyone out of place --”

“We’ll give you a call.” Rose nods, eyes wide. “You don’t have to ask around at _ all _the stores around here, do you?”

Big sigh. “Yes ma’am.”

Rose pulls her best sympathy face. “Good lord. You fellas hang in there, alright?” She scoops a hand over her eyes, mock-searching. “I’ll be on full alert for the rascals.”

When she clocks in a moment later, her hands shake with excitement.

A few days later, she’s back. 

She’s in the same oversized jacket but it’s rolled up to her sleeves and she’s warpainted with black grease on her hands, arms, a little on her cheek. It’s smudged just enough that Rose can tell she tried to clean herself up. Doubt she carries a compact. Instead of slinking right into the store through the main walkway, she detours a bit towards the checkout lines. She stretches her neck, looking towards the register from last time.

Rose stays cool.

“Hello again!” She waves -- she’s a few lanes closer, this morning. (The woman startles, but recovers.) Rose’s face pulls in a sympathy grimace. “Ooof… have you got some car trouble?”

The woman waves cautiously, once. She might be smiling. Her face gets tighter at the bottom, anyway. “Just my bike.”

Bicycle? No one rides bicycles here. There aren’t any damn sidewalks.

“Bike, like...” Rose pantomimes steering handlebars side to side.

“Like, uh…” She mirrors the pantomime, but rolls one hand back in a throttle. _ Vroom vroom. _

A motorcycle. Oh, duh. 

Rose gives her weddingbell laugh. Cute. “Baby wipes on aisle 3, hon.”

The girl (woman? she really does seem younger) freezes with her hands still up. And she was doing so well, gosh. The combined term of endearment and warm dismissal must be enough to frog her circuits.

After a moment she still hasn’t moved so Rose gives a little wave and an encouraging grin. “I’m up here when you’re ready!”

There she goes. Good.

Yes.

Now Rose can have a private panic attack about how to handle this.

The possibility of calling her in, of course, is momentarily entertained and instantly discarded. Of course not. Rose wants to know what the hell she’s _ up _to.

With sugar? Vandalism? On the mountain? Cute lesbian? 

Rose wants to _ know. _

Her fingers drum on the checkstand. It’s a hair past eleven. 

Maybe vandalism isn’t the worst of it. There’s no way to tell who’s carrying what out here, really. It’s a big land. Big mountain. Rose shouldn’t be so quick to assume she’s safe, even with someone who gets tonguetied just looking at her.

Whatever this person’s up to, the police may not be investigating the worst of it. 

That gives her pause. Her eyes cut to the windows at the front of the store. If she parked her motorcycle out there, it’s not in Rose’s eyeline. Maybe she can get a look at it. A description. Do some digging around. 

It’s a different shade of hungry. The same kind that gnawed at her at five-six-seven-eight years old, barefoot at the edge of the woods behind the main house, armed with a stick for poking the copperheads.

Rose wants to _ know. _

(It’s eleven-five.)

She’s quicker to come closer, now. There’s still a solid minute between her sneaking into the corner of Rose’s eye and approaching, but all she needs this time is a welcoming smile.

On the belt she drops a can of WD-40 and -- yes, good call -- baby wipes. She must have cracked them open, based on the smudge near the opening and the fact that she’s scrubbed clean.

“I already opened these,” she says, hangdog. “Hope that’s okay. 

“Very okay. I knew you were somewhere under all that gunk.” Rose winks. “What went wrong with your bike?”

“The drive chain… it just needs some lube." 

_ Oooh, chains and lube, _comes to mind to quip. But Rose discards it. She might find herself talking to an imploded little grease stain in her lane if she isn’t careful. Instead she asks, “How did your experiment go?” 

The woman stares. Politely terrified, like she’s been called on to make a speech.

Rose grins, patient. “The _ bread_, honey.”

The girl laughs a little, coarse with nerves. It comes out like a cough. Pink in her cheeks. She likes being called ‘honey.’ “Not... not great. I’ll try again later.”

“No? You sure?”

Blank look, a bit helpless. But she’s still smiling. 

Rose rings up the total and plops her bag on the counter in reach. “That’ll be twelve thirteen.” 

The woman hands over a twenty. And, the loudest she’s spoken so far: “Keep the change.”

“Oh, no, hon, you’ll want it back.” Rose digs some bills from her cash drawer, coins snickering against the plastic. “You can use it to buy me a cup of coffee.” 

The woman goes still again. There’s a split second of… shock. There, in her eyes. They’re large, and luminous, but up to now, they’ve been less like windows to the soul and more like buckler shields. For a moment she isn't hidden away behind them. The corner of her lips tugs at the start of an unbelieving smile. Some eggshell spark of frail, matchhead hope.

Rose snuffs it out.

“When we talk about the cops that came by a few days ago.” Rose smiles with everything but her eyes. She can feel them glint like the change in her hand as she leans closer, whispering, “They weren’t asking about bread recipes.”

The effect is remarkable.

All the lights go out in her. The color’s the same, the size, the shape, but Rose is suddenly instead looking at some old creature's eyes. Something that would leer out at her from a cave. 

Rose wets her lips. “Meet me at three o’clock, Wednesday. Barter’s Coffee.”

“What is this?” The sound is like a knife through a screendoor.

“Your change, silly.” There’s a tremor in Rose’s voice. “Go on. Take it.” Impulse bites: she moves to take the woman’s hand, to press the money --

“_Don’t. _” 

Shock flashes to her shoulder, brief and evil, coins scattering to the counter as Rose’s wrist is squeezed. It’s not very tight but it’s enough to hurt. 

They really are ghost eyes. Restless as water, all this time, but now it’s like they want to bleach Rose to the bone: to the skin, blood, all of her. They warn: _Don’t you dare. Don’t. _

“Don’t be clever.” Hissing like the copperheads.

“Can’t help it, I’m afraid,” Rose whispers. The only panic button is by the wire transfers at the service desk. Marianne must be in the back. No one else is in eyeline. 

But Rose keeps calm. She exhales. Slow. “Let go, please.”

She inhales. And exhales again. 

Then she does. She lets go. Her hand comes away still in the shape of the grab, and makes a fist around the bills. Their hands brush this time and her skin is pharaoh-cold.

“Just coffee,” Rose says.

One of the girl’s sleeves comes untucked as she takes her bag. Her look is every kind of acid. She goes unnoticed by anyone else as she storms silently out the exit. An engine starts; snarls; fades away. 

Rose waits for her hands to stop shaking to pick up the coins. But only the ones that landed heads.


	2. first at the lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [ TheBlindBandit ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlindBandit/)for the beta!

The first thing out of her mouth when Rose takes her seat is “Who have you told?”

Well la-dee-da. _ Rose _is almost an hour early; who knows how long this girl’s been staking out. She takes a moment to weigh the question, casting around to take in the patrons. Just some college kids. Some small business-looking type with a ponytail and glasses. A couple of construction workers on lunch, a granny asleep over her newspaper.

Rose asks, expecting a cold stare in return, “Not even going to take my order first?” and of course she’s correct.

She looks more strung out than last time. Expectedly. Out of place, too. Eye contact had been an _ insurmountable _challenge for her on a friendly basis but now she uses it to hold Rose at gunpoint. Against the backdrop of the rest of the shop, Ghost Girl sticks out like vinegar in vanillacake. 

Rarely does Rose want to stay off the radar. But she does now. She shrinks her stage presence, her bubble, just like having a bit part on stage. Public place to meet, good; too much interest in their conversation, bad.

Her poker face holds as she leans across the table. “Show me your driver’s license.”

It’s abrupt enough.“Why?”

“I want to know your name.” Her _real _name.

Silverware clatters a few tables over. They watch each other. And maybe in that time, the girl weighs lying: that she doesn’t have one on her. A flicker of muscle in her jaw says she’s clenching it… ooh, maybe she really _ doesn’t _ have one on her. 

But she shifts in the seat. Still watching Rose, she reaches behind. Her wallet is already halfway out before the big mechanic’s jacket shifts, exposing the beginnings of a handle tucked low along her back.

Gun? Was that a fucking_ gun? _ Rose only got a glance. 

But it’s already gone again. Then the woman is pulling her license from a geriatric leather wallet. Worn in the corners. Put the poor thing out of its misery, already.

But then there she is -- Ghost Girl herself.

_ Pearl Sarvis. _

Rose tests the shape of it, silent: it never quite leaves the mouth. One part of Rose says _S__ounds like a snake name, _ while another says _ Pearl? Really? That’s so **girly**. _

Well. One Pearl Sarvis is lawless enough to fuck with some very expensive _ something _on the mountain, but not so much as to drive without her appropriate government I.D.

She looks different in it -- the license. Bored but calm. Her face is relaxed, chin untucked, Roman nose. Thin lips on a narrow jaw. A little thumbprint smudge of scar tissue along one eyebrow. Two years older than Rose, which surprises.

Rose leans back in the seat. Her eyebrows perk with churchly interest. “You were almost a Christmas baby.” 

The same face looks different sitting across from her now. She’s simmering, and intent, and Rose is relieved that her voice didn’t come out shaky.

“You aren’t a cop,” Pearl says. 

Haha... okay. "You know a lot of cops doing grocery store stings?"

"But you aren't working with them."

“Are you asking or telling?” Rose’s mouth puckers. She watches again for the handle (gun?) as Pearl stows her license, but nothing doing. No chance for a closer look. “I hate when people do that.”

Pearl pulls in a long, slow sigh through her nose. The nostrils flair just a mite. She straightens. Rose is given the sense that she’s relaxing but trying not to let on. “What do you want.”

Rose frowns. “You didn’t ask _ my _name.” 

“I read your nametag.”

Oh. Damn. Rose had hoped to dangle that one for a little bit.

“What do you want?” Pearl repeats. 

“One mocha latte and one black, no sugar.”

Her mouth tugs down, disdainful. “That’s not what I --”

“I know exactly what you meant.” Rose bats her lashes. “Get that black to-go, pretty please.”

Pearl hesitates. A slow, quiet look, studying Rose. “You seriously want two.”

“Still cheaper than the repair bill." Ooh, that's worth a simper! "Don’t you think?”

Wordless, Pearl sweeps away. She moves quietly. Even in boots? Well that’s something. And wow -- they seem about as done in as the wallet. Trade them in already. When Pearl talks to the barista she keeps her face pointed to the counter, shoulders sloped in, and Rose watches her fingertips pet along themselves restlessly. There’s a patch of wear and tear along the bottom hem of the jacket, too, that must be a victim of the same fidgeting. With her sleeves rolled down, Rose can’t quite tell how --

“_There _ she is!”

Rose almost pisses herself. 

“John! Christ,” she softens her voice quick as she can after her initial squawk, shrugging the hand off her shoulder. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry. Hey, you really came.” He slides into Pearl’s seat before Rose can get her breath back. He looks _ very _satisfied in his collared shirt. Bordering on the smug, really.

Since Rose saw the handle she’s doubly glad she double-booked, but this kid is fucking annoying. 

John asks, “What can I get you?” and Jesus, if he can read the vibe he’s certainly engaging in some willful illiteracy. 

Rose starts, impatient, “The agreement was for me to get one for _ you _\--”

Pearl is already halfway back, drinks in hand. Her look of confusion turns blank as she sees Rose watching.

“-- aaaand there she is! Thanks Pearl.” Rose beams, waving her over. (Pearl hesitates.) When she finally comes close enough to reach, Rose plucks the black coffee from her hand and deposits it in front of John.

“John, this is Pearl, Pearl, John. Old high school friend catch-up. We haven’t seen each other in _ years_, have we?” She smiles brilliantly into Pearl’s still-blank face. John looks between the two of them in turn, and back again. 

“Uh,” he says, “Do you want to --”

“Well I’ll see you tomorrow, John! Unless you aren’t working?”

“... no, I’m there tomorrow. But do you --”

“Great. Enjoy your coffee, honey.” 

She smiles pointedly, holding the silence. John shoots a look at Pearl. Pearl stares at him. No answers there, chief. John turns to Rose one last time, all question marks, until Rose muses over her mug, “I think Pearl would like her seat back.”

Poor kid. Rose lets her smile sag, just a smidge, watching his back vanish outside the door. He’s not a bad guy. Just too pushy not to get smacked a little. 

Pearl is watching again from across the table. She still looks angry but it’s a more careful kind.

“Nothing for yourself to drink?” Rose arches her eyebrows at the table. “Looks like John’s is up for grabs.”

“You wanted someone to see us together.”

She’s really going to leave off question marks every time, huh? So dramatic.

Rose just nods, mock meekly. “I did. And he’ll expect to see me tomorrow. So let’s be sweet as pie to each other, huh?”

It’s an okay mocha. Still too hot to drink, really, but Rose finds it convenient to have a prop of some kind so she pretends to sip as she waits for a response.

For a moment, it seems like Pearl’s smiling. It’s a strange look. Her hand scrubs over her mouth before it slides up to press fingers into her temple. She already has frown lines. Amused? Frustrated? Probably both.

“Sure. Okay.” The table wobbles as she squares her elbows. “But you should know if you want money, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of Rose. “Oh, no, nothing like that!” She waits for some passersby to exit earshot. When she whispers across the table, her eyes goggle for effect. “This isn't some scintillating _shakedown_ like the movies, hon.”

“Then what do you want?”

Oh yeah. Rose should figure that out.

The info she could track down since talking with the deputies was sparse. Likely because there were no injuries involved. Just that there was some stymied worksite out in the sticks. But in the meantime, she just wants to hear more. “I’m just… _ curious. _ I want the scoop. And no, I’m not a reporter either,” she hurries to add.

“And you’re not _ working _ with--”

“And I’m not working with one.”

There. That should cover the bases. Pearl is still faintly glaring but she sighs quiet through her nose. Coming closer to cooperating.

“So!” Rose squares her elbows on the table, too. Mirroring Pearl with her mocha perched businesslike. “Clue me in, darlin’.”

For the first time since approaching the table, Pearl looks anxious. She glances over her shoulder at the door, out the window. 

She begins to lean in closer, broadcasting with her body language **HEY LISTEN UP** until Rose murmurs, soft, “Relax. Look natural.” The sound freezes Pearl on a dime. “We're just two old friends catching up.”

No one seems to care about them for the moment. But good God, the chick is indiscreet. 

She almost relaxes. There’s something thorny in her eyes, but she lowers her voice to conversation rather than conspiratorial. “Sugar acts as a retardant for the setting process in concrete.” A pause. “In the right proportion, the concrete would need to be relaid entirely.”

Incredible. What’s the saying? Seeing the forest for the trees? 

“You’re gonna need to give me the whole picture, here. _ Why _do you want the concrete flubbing?”

Pearl’s shoulders unbunch and she settles back… sort of. After a moment, she asks, “How long do you want to live here?”

Rose laughs low, like she’s heard a good joke. “I know you’re not threatening me, hon.” 

But no; Pearl seems in earnest. Her hands spread on the tabletop. She’s even looking down -- showing Rose some kind of invisible map. “We sit between two major continental watersheds... Everything we drink, everything we grow and use comes from them. And they’re going to be ruined, along with everything else.”

“From what?”

Pearl straightens her shoulders. Relaxed at last, like an old friend catching up. She holds up her index finger: “Surface mining.” Two fingers. “Mountaintop removal.” Three. “And hydraulic fracturing.”

Her gaze drops to the table again. She shifts the abandoned cup of black coffee with her fingertips, not quite holding it. “In thirty years, all the water will look like this... maybe sooner.” What’s visible of her eyes flickers strangely, somewhere far away. “Nothing can live on that.”

Rose stares.

It's a lie, of course. But an extremely thorough one. Impressive. “You’re pretty smart, huh?”

Whatever response Pearl expected, it sure wasn't that. She blinks twice and looks up from the cup with a confused sneer.

Rose doesn’t care. “Are you in school?”

The invisible map is withdrawn. Her hands retreat to her lap. “... graduate.”

“With a bachelor’s?”

“Yes.” Her face is returning to that blank look. “I’m in graduate school.”

Oooh, _ very _smart. “What for?”

Pearl tells the tabletop “Geology,” and looks up again, miffed, when Rose snorts.

“Sorry! Sorry. No, it’s very cool. It’s just a bit at odds with the -- you know --” her hand waves “the whole... James Dean vibe._ Not _ a bad thing,” she adds, catching Pearl’s frown. Change the subject. “I went to school, too.”

Huh. A weird look crosses Pearl’s face at that. “What for?”

“Oh, lots of things. Literature for awhile. Theatre…. art history.”

Her eyebrows scrunch. “You didn’t finish?”

“Learning is a constant, quotidian process,” Rose chides, “We should never _ finish.” _

“But you don’t have a degree from it?”

“Whatever happened to education for education’s sake? When did higher knowledge just become a means to a nabbing some cush job?” Rose takes a haughty sip, chin rising. “I’m a student of _ life_, darlin'.”

Pearl’s look goes from blank confusion to tired contempt. 

“... c'mon, what’s with the stinkface?” Rose tugs one corner of her lips. It’s a pretty rousing sentiment, in her opinion.

“You sound…” A moment passes in scrutiny. Pearl’s head tilts. “... rich.”

The mocha hits too hard when Rose semi-drops it and the damn thing sloshes down the side of the mug, scalding her. A loud _ Shit! _earns some stares. Pearl, to her credit, reaches for the napkin dispenser on the empty table next to them. Some of the confusion has evaporated but there’s no less contempt in her face. “Why are you working at a grocery store?” 

Fucking really? Even complete strangers are giving her this shit.

“We’re getting offtopic, here,” Rose doesn’t grumble, mopping up the mess, “I want to talk about you.”

“What else?”

“What you’re _ doing _up there.”

“I already told you!” It comes out distinctly squeaky. Heads turn. 

“Hush.” They’re definitely gathering attention now. The last half of her mocha is tepid, anyway. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What? Where?” And _ why? _ Rose hears.

“For a walk.” She pushes away from the table without waiting for an answer.

Pearl’s not happy about it, but she gets up to follow. They step out into the little downtown area. More of a village square. 

The lighting curls lower; sunset in an hour or so. The baby-shower colors of the dogwoods and the little thicket of calicobush dot their way. The Tenbrook seamstress had planted it decades ago, but her shop must have shuttered since Rose has been here last. She feels her eyes pinching at how different things look. How long since she’d been down here? She had wanted to reset her brain a bit. 

Idling in thought takes up so much of her brain that she's slow realizing: for some reason Rose thought Pearl was taller, but now she sees they’re the same height. Or close to. Rose might even have an inch or two on her. 

She had damn near loomed the other night.

It's quieter, here. This corner of the square. There’s a little beer garden that’s nothing to write home about and likely on its last legs. There aren’t many young people around here to _ use _it, except for the community college crowds in town -- maybe a few entrepreneurs and business upstarts from farther upstate. But Rose's interest in the beer garden extends strictly to the hip-height wall that lines it, which Rose is happy to make a perch of, and turns to Pearl for the first time since leaving the cafe. 

“Got a smoke?” Rose asks.

“... no, I don’t smoke.”

Uh-huh. “I saw your lighter in your pocket earlier.”

“Which means I have a lighter.” She keeps her face blank and it almost works. “Doesn’t mean I smoke.”

Ooh, that will _not _fly here.

Rose leans in. 

“Here’s how this works best,” she croons, low and intimate. They must look like lovers leaned against the wall like this. A couple cracks begin to show in Pearl’s expression and Rose drawls, “You don’t lie to me, even about little things. And you give me --” her hand grazes Pearl’s on the wall, “-- everything I ask for.”

She’s close enough to feel the hitch in her breath, just before the older woman pulls back a full step. It brushes Rose’s cheek and leaves velvet.

It’s exciting. It’s very _ very _ exciting, and a little self-righteous, honestly, after Pearl had her so shaky and flat-footed the other night. 

“We can even think of it as a game,” Rose goes on, watching. “You’re, hmm… my handsome magic genie.” She laughs once, low, smiling with playground conspiracy. _ Isn’t this a fun secret? _

Pearl’s throat bobs. The carefully blank expression crumbles as Rose’s eyes trace a slow up-and-down. It’s not an especially sultry look but it’s enough to have Pearl shrink another step backwards until her heel clips the wall, stumbling. Yep, there it is. _ Oh, I’ve got your number now, darlin’. _

“Tough guy act doesn’t work on pretty girls, huh?” Rose laughs. Winks; holds out her hand. 

Pearl’s sneer is back. It doesn’t quite touch her eyes. When she still hasn’t moved Rose curls her fingers in a beckon.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Pearl mumbles, reaching into her jacket.

Rose takes the pack, turning them over in her hand. “Lucky Strikes? What are you, eighty? Only crusty old ‘Nam vets smoke these.” She plucks one from the box and plants it in her pout, wiggling it expectantly. This is starting to get fun. Pearl gives her a seasick look and flips open her lighter. Rose has to shield it from the breeze herself, though. Fine.

_ Blech. _Except that they’re stale as fuck. “How old are these? Good lord.”

“Old.” Pearl does not hide her smug look. “I told you, I quit.”

“Quitting usually means stopping.”

“I _ have _stopped.”

“And you’re so good at it I’ll bet you practice once a week.”

The smugness is short-lived. The look Pearl shoots her could sour milk.

Rose giggles behind her hand. 

“They’re for emergencies,” Pearl grunts. The box rustles when she spirits it away, back into some secret pocket of her jacket. “I don’t make a habit of it.”

“Mmm... just of quitting.”

If Rose keeps the puffs light, it’s really not too terrible. The nicotine is nice. She shimmies a little against the wall, trying to get comfortable. The stone is still warm from the afternoon sun and it’s a little too cozy on the rear.

The two of them watch foot traffic for awhile. It’s close to suppertime so it’s not as though there’s much to watch. A familiar Ford pulls down the main drive, lepered with rust, something expensive-sounding whining from under the hood. Rose squints; it’s Dennis in the driver’s seat. Marianne’s husband. Finally, _ finally _on disability after years of rejected applications. He kept things running as long as he could. Some nights Marianne would be up past 3 a.m., gingerly helping him out of an Epsom bath. Trying to tamp down the zings of arthritis in time for work in four hours.

He waves when he sees her; she waves back, smiling warm.

“Who’ve you told?” 

The smile cools. Rose wonders what Dennis thinks, seeing the two of them. 

She waits for him to pass in his pickup (“MOUNTAIN PROUD” bumper sticker side by side with “WILD AND WONDERFUL”) before she answers. Her hand is still raised in a wave when she answers. “No one.” It’s even true.

“‘No one.’”

“That’s right.”

Pearl is adversarial. Certainly. And a little unstable, and likely dangerous, yes. But by now, after observing with a shrewd ten-minute eye, Rose is fairly certain that Pearl has zero interest in harming her. And Rose is an excellent judge of character. Pearl’s too nervous, too girl-shy. It really is like dealing with a teenage boy.

But she still manages to throw Rose for a loop. “Is that a literature joke?” 

What?

“What?” That actually gets Rose to turn to face her. “Uhh... nnnnno?”

If Pearl is embarrassed, she doesn’t show it with an explanation. Air puffs out of her nose. Her expression is clear, even in the dimming light. Wouldn’t it be something if she had eyeshine. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”

Ah. Yes. Rose should think about that. In the meantime, though, “I’d like to see your bike.”

“You don’t need to see my bike.” 

"I sure don't,” she says, cheery. “But bet your butt you're going to show it to me."

Rose watches in the corner of her eye as Pearl shifts. The dangerous air from that night in the checkout line does not arrive. But Pearl grates her next question. “How long do you plan on doing this?”

“Until I’m done with you, sweetheart,” Rose purrs. She stubs out the cigarette on the wall between them, like she’s painting punctuation.

  
  
  
  


Rose knows nothing about motorcycles but it certainly _ looks _nice. Long, plush leather seat, shiny cranberry carapace. TRIUMPH brazen as a tramp stamp on the side.

“Aww, no big snarly Harley?” Rose conceals her enthusiasm as she bends at the waist, inspecting. “Not sure Bon Jovi approves of… whatever this is.”

Pearl watches. She’s been hunched away from Rose ever since the cigarette. “It’s a Bonneville,” she mutters.

“_Whatever _ it is.” Rose arches an eyebrow. “Anyway. Looks like you have a little money, after all.” 

Pearl’s eyes narrow but she keeps quiet. Good. Rose smiles and flips her hair over her shoulder.

“I want to ride on your --” she pantomimes handlebars, complete with throttle -- “bike.”

Her arms have been crossed but now they hitch, like Pearl isn’t sure what to do. She looks pained. Her bottom lip sucks under her teeth, casting a tender eye over her motorcycle. Jesus, like it’s her newborn. When she forks over the keys, they appear to weigh two hundred pounds.

“Oh, no! No, silly,” Rose laughs. “I want you to _ take _me for a ride.”

This might be the closest she gets to a flush. But the anger is back, too. “You’ve been taking me for a ride from the word ‘go.’”

“So you_ can _ banter! Wonderful.” Rose slips onto the seat, wiggling, already comfortable. “I was beginning to wonder. Well, come on.” She pats the leather in front of her. Ooh, it _ is _nice. “Let’s do a loop through 57.”

She can see what Pearl will look like in twenty years. But maybe she just wants this to be over with. She unsnaps the helmet from its perch on the handlebars. It’s already halfway over her head before Pearl stops; she tugs it off again, and hands it to Rose without a word.

How chivalrous. Rose hums. “A real hardass, huh?” 

Pearl pauses. For a moment, Rose is certain she’s about to say something scathing (her mouth twists up like she wants to spit) but no: she simply reaches into the saddlebag next to Rose’s hip and tugs out a powdery blue handkerchief.

(The bag closes too fast for Rose to get a good look inside.)

“For your hair,” she says.

Cute. But nah. The hairtie around Rose's wrist comes down over her fingers, and she flutters a wave from inside of it. Flutters her eyebrows, too, before she loops her hair back into a ponytail.  
  
Pearl just shakes her head. “Not good enough. The wind will tear it up, tied back like normal.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m not much for vanity.” 

Pearl looks at her for a long moment. It’s a new look. Difficult to read.

… oh, that better not be _ skepticism. _

Rose scowls. “_What? _ I’m not!”

Pearl is unmoved. “I’m not taking chances with you getting all fussy about a rat’s nest.” 

She props one boot on the Bonneville’s footrest. Wordless, practiced, she lays the bandanna against the table of her thigh and folds it into a long strip. Her fingers have a delicate look but they’re callused from root to tip. Rose hadn’t noticed, earlier.

Pearl brings the bandanna strip up to Rose’s neck before catching herself and going stiff. “It, uh,” her eyes skitter, “around your neck.”

Rose giggles. She _ giggles. _Too easy.

Maybe Pearl can hear what she’s thinking; her expression goes stormy but she doesn’t fluster, doesn’t blush.

“Show me?” Rose tips her chin up. 

“No.” 

“You’re no fun.”

Rose takes it, and Pearl explains a simple single knot -- not too tight -- just below the hairtie. She tucks the loose ends in to make a loop, to Pearl’s exact instruction but apparently not satisfaction.

“Now take your hair and twirl it around the loop, like a vine. Yes. Uh, no… you just...” She resists grabbing at Rose, but not by much. “No, just -- _ twirl _it, and tuck it in.” She gestures. “Loop it around.”

“Like this?” 

“No. No, you --” She actually huffs (!!!) and tries to mime it on herself while Rose scoffs.

Ugh. Rose’s arms cross. “You really _ could _just do it for me.” 

Too late she realizes her nose is in the air. Shit. _There's_ an old habit. 

But Pearl’s already reaching to fuss with the arrangement. 

Rose can’t watch what Pearl does differently along her neck, but she can watch Pearl. It’s the absolute closest they’ve been. She can see the little divots of her crow’s feet, none shaped like smile lines. There’s a gold freckle in her left iris among the ghost water. Singular and focused. Rose has vanished, to her. Pearl’s face is intent, and keen, but neutral: the expression a razor would wear. 

Rose does not swallow.

Pearl’s hands don’t waver until the last curl is tucked in. She wets her lips when she does, and glances once more at her handiwork. Adds, then, a bit lamely, “It whips around otherwise.”

Rose does not blink. “When did you have long hair?”

Oh, it’s back. The quiet angry look. And aimed right at Rose.

But it’s there only a moment before Pearl turns away. 

“Put your helmet on.”

  
  
  
  


This exact route by car doesn’t feel the same. The helmet keeps Rose from getting too close but she can see that Pearl is due for a trim. How often does she have to get to the barber to keep it so short? What a pain. 

The wind on her legs takes her by pleasant surprise. That wasn’t a clear memory from the last time she rode, whenever that was. Maybe she wasn’t in shorts then. Rose realized almost the moment Pearl threw her knee over the seat that her damn thighs were going to stick to the leather a la juicy summer soupiness, but at least Pearl’s in jeans. Rose won’t have to extricate herself from her chaffeur with any plunger sound effects when she dismounts, though it would give her all kinds of one-liners.

The throttle rips (Rose squeaks a little), and they're off. Pearl’s weight is simple to follow as she steers. She leans into a right, then onto the 57, and then they are growling across the highway. It’s coming on dusk now. Sticky Halloween colors spill in from the ridge, coating the tallest trees in yummy bakery sepia, and shit, it really is gorgeous. Rose sees how some folks could get used to it.

It’s only with her arms around her waist that Rose can feel that Pearl’s scrawny. Like, _scrawny. _The jacket cuts her a rather dashing silhouette, despite the fact that it’s too big on her. Maybe it’s someone else’s? There’s a thought. Rose feels herself frown behind the visor.

She must run much cooler than Rose, too. Even with the humidity, the tiny patch of t-shirt underneath Rose’s clasped hands is dry and cool. When she had grabbed Rose’s wrist it was like Pearl had just clawed her way out of a snowdrift.

Well. She _ is _pretty pale, too. Maybe anemic or something. 

(Rose frowns again.) (For some reason.)

They aren’t halfway through the 57 loop when the lights come on behind them. A siren whoops, once-twice, matter-of-fact.

Pearl jolts like the seat’s been electrified. “What? Why? My speed was fine!”

Rose turns her head to see: local police, sure. One cop solo. Hard to tell who it is in the seat.

Rose hears a soft “Fuck.” 

“Pull over,” Rose murmurs in her ear. If it earns a shiver she doesn’t notice. “Just relax.”

“I don’t have insurance,” Pearl mumbles.

Oof. “Just keep cool.”

The Bonneville’s engine whirrs to a stop as Pearl angles them onto the shoulder. The loss of sound makes Rose’s head ring. 

They sit quietly. Waiting. Rose is completely relaxed until she remembers the handle. Oh, fuck. She finally notices it now, digging into her belly.

Her heart cinches. “What do you have on your back?”

Pearl fidgets with the handlebars. She whispers back, “Knife.”

Not as bad as a handgun. Still not a great look on a patdown, though.

“You can move your arms.” Pearl sounds wooden. 

So she can. Rose doesn’t. 

The patrol car opens; the boots hit the pavement. No hiding behind the door or drawn weapon. Nothing tense. No reason to believe that someone else has traced whatever nonsense it is to a butchy lady on a motorcycle.

But her arms tighten a little. 

The officer’s boots crush against the grit on the side of the road as he approaches. “License, registration and insurance please.” 

Pearl moves now. Rose loosens her hold so she can get to her wallet, and takes the chance to smile at the officer. Not either of the two that came by the store. Cinderblock brow. Little larvae of a moustache. He’s familiar, though. Something about the way his cheeks sit on his jaw... she knows him, even through the sunglasses.

A little picture lights up: the pimply back of a neck in freshman composition, topped with a terrible taxidermy haircut. Crossed arms and a puffed little bird chest in front of the student cafe. 

Rose gasps theatrically. “That’s not _ Travis_, is it?”

The officer balks. He looks over as she unsnaps her helmet and tugs her hair free, letting it tumble out to its typical length and luxury. “Surprise, stranger!”

“Rose?” He sounds like his tongue’s in low tide. 

“It’s been forever! Take a look at you, big guy!” She slips with a little trouble (yep, thighs sticking) from the seat and spreads her arms wide. For a terrible second it looks like he won’t take the hug. But then he leans into it. Good. “Oof, honey, you filled _ out. _ I don’t remember these shoulders. Goodness. Those are _ firm_. Wow!" Sodapop laugh, sweet and buzzy. "How the hell are you?”

“Oh, you know.” He’s a little flustered at the attention, shifting his weight. “Graduated. Got the job.”

She laughs her wedding laugh. “I can see that. Kearney can take his bullshit rubric shove it up his ass. Did they finally fix that grade?” Their professor had a flair for putdowns. 

Travis (McLang? McCall? Something like that)’s thumbs hook into his belt, aw-shucks, you know, ma’am. “They did. But they almost pulled my financials over it. Got the department head to overturn, but it took some doing.”

“Thank God. A breeze to blow us over but we need a damn typhoon to push it back, huh?”

Pearl sits with her license still in hand, staring at them. 

Rose dutifully ignores her.

“But what -- what about you?” Travis asks. He’s earnest in the catch-up now, arms crossed over his refrigerator chest. “You went AWOL on us around Thanksgiving that year.”

“Ugh, yeahhh. I came down with a horrible case of shingles,” Rose lies. “Didn’t get over it until Valentine’s. I’m kind of in between in-betweens right now.” She grins, ruefully. 

“You’re too smart not to graduate. You’ll get back in it, right?”

“Soon! I’m actually looking into geology next.”

Pearl’s head whips.

“Well, we gotta be going. It was great seeing you, Trav. You should come down, say hi sometime.” She gives him one last squeeze and a peck on the cheek, cutting him off. When she pulls away his jaw is half-slack.

“Yeah. Y’all drive... safe.” He blinks, twice, turning back to his patrol car. He moves like there’s pudding in his boots. Just as Rose is about to shimmy back into her seat, he lurches at the feet like he’s been physically struck with memory -- “_ Oh, you _ \--”

“Helmet,” Pearl calls over her shoulder, bland. “I need another helmet.”

Travis’s mouth stretches into a line. It nearly vanishes. “... you all have a good night.”

Pearl’s information is still out by the time his door closes. Rose waves a hand in front of her face, then begins a sloppy resecuring of her hair. “Pssst, c’mon. Put those away.”

“What was _ that_?” Pearl sizzles. But she hurries to stow the cards again, watching in her side mirror.

The patrol car starts up and rolls past; Rose waves. Travis looks like he’s dreaming.

“You didn’t even say where he should ‘come say hi.’ He didn’t even take my --”

“All ready! Giddyup, buttercup.” Rose giggles. “I want to stop by the lake before we go back.” 

“Did you do something to him?”

Rose blinks. Slow. “What would I have done?”

Pearl says nothing. She just watches Rose over her shoulder like she’s looking for a trap.

"Oh come on. Smile a little! Don’t you get giddy when you dodge the feds?” Rose giggles again in illustration. “You _ owe _ me, honey. We wanna keep your tight lil keister off that radio, even just for routine things."

"I owe you," Pearl echoes, dully. "Do I really?"

“If it’s not worth all this trouble, next time just steal it.” Rose winks.

Pearl says nothing. The engine starts, and they go.

  


The loop of 57 is bottomed with Lake Pale. It’s one of Rose’s favorite spots for a number of reasons, least of which is its low traffic and extensive library of hidingspots. Rose had her first kiss with another girl here -- the same day as her first terrible sip of vodka -- all at some classmate’s 12th birthday party. Rose would learn to pick the lock on the family liquor cabinets in the years to come, but that first sip smuggled from a waterbottle was like being breastfed lye. Absolutely hideous. It brings a wry smile to her, now, remembering. Much sweeter was that quiet moment with a girl whose name Rose has long forgotten. While the other partygoers were toweling off, chatting in line for ice cream cake, the two of them made awkward work of it: hidden underneath the dock, water damn near up to their clip-on earrings.

(Remembering that makes her smile, too.)

When Pearl pulls them over in a secret little copse of trees, Rose slips off to stretch her legs (yep, sticking again) with a happy groan. It’s easy to cramp like that! You can’t move around much. She tries to wedge the helmet between the leather and some of the metal bits until Pearl, still seated, takes it from her with a sigh.

She doesn’t hook the helmet over the bars right away. Rose watches her chew on a question until she finally outs with it: “Did you actually know him?” 

There’s a silent addendum: _ Or does everyone just play along with you? _

It’s worth a grin. Rose turns in time to hide it, hands clasped behind. She stilts a step or two towards the water to complete the schoolyard image. Behind her, Pearl swings out of the seat.

_ A little closer. _

Rose hums fondly as she turns back around. Her eyes close, too, as if remembering. “We fooled around a few times in the locker rooms. He’s got a birthmark right -- here --” She traces the bare dip beneath her collarbone, flushed in the humid night, “-- shaped like Austria.”

Success: Pearl’s eyes drift, following the redirection, and linger. She freezes. Her cheeks go pink before she tears them away. Averted to the ground.

Rose tries to resist -- she really, _ really tries! _\-- but fuck, a giggle slips out. 

_Clkgh. _It's almost audible when Pearl’s throat bobs. She takes a step back, and tucks her chin. “You’re lying.”

Rose giggles more. Fuck. Okay, she’s really cute. Even if she’s acting like a church marm aghast at someone dipping into the collection plate. That launches Rose into another fit, hands over her mouth.

Pearl’s eyebrows press _ hard _ in the middle. No wonder she’s so wrinkly there. “Why would you lie about that?”

She gets her laughter under control, just in time to bite her lip in wordless answer. Rose smiles, head turning left… right... left, slow. Poor thing. _You’re not very good at this, are you? _

Pearl hears it. Her eyes harden and brighten. A hint of that swamplight from the checkout line comes back and Rose moves to mollify.

“Hey, come on -- relax!” She heeeeaves a sigh -- nice and cartoonishly slow -- to model it. “You can look at me, you know. I might even love it." The grin is back, soft. "I'm sure you've figured out I like girls, too.”

She stiffens. Watchful. Probably couldn't slip a greased corn kernel up her ass with how tight she goes.

“I really_ was _ flirting with you that first night before the whole… you know.” Rose shrugs. “Listen, it’s _ okay. _There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m not one of those fundies out to thump a Bible at you.” She hums. Couldn’t be farther from it.

She takes a step closer and Pearl takes two back.

“Relax! So _jumpy_. It’s just us here!” It’s like coaxing a stray cat. “No one’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“Not for that.” Pearl’s voice is croaky. Rope-dry. Her throat bobs again.

Rose shrugs again, lopsided. Her chin tilts. It’s meant to be inviting but Pearl’s frown only deepens and her shoulders rise. 

Hmmm. Touchy. Rose turns her back again, lacing slow, hopscotch steps towards the water.

“You weren’t --” Pearl’s throat clears “-- you weren’t serious about doing geology, were you?”

“What if I were? Wouldn’t you like to inspire the next generation of rock lovers?” 

She turns just enough to catch Pearl casting her eyes across the water. Maybe in hopes of materializing on the other side. 

That softens her. Rose’s voice lowers, intimate: “Hey.” 

It works. Pearl looks back to her. 

Rose keeps her voice downy. “What are you really doing up there?”

Got to give it to her. Girl has a good poker face. “I already told you.”

Hmmmmm. 

“A little tree huggin’ Robin Hood.” Rose takes a lazy step closer to the water. Ten feet out, just about. “It makes for a great story.” 

Every summer here is humid as stew, but things get easier by the water. Rose enjoys. She lets her chin tip back to the sky, _ gorgeous _ night, a big milkshake moon glowing like something in a bedtime story. Rose sighs. It feels _ wonderful. _

“Let’s go back.”

Rose pretends not to hear. “It’s sweltering.” She peels the stray hairs off the back of her neck. She fans herself with one hand as she toes out of her shoes. “Aren’t you burning up?”

“... I took my jacket off.” So she did. But there’s not a trace of sweat on Pearl. Rose takes a moment to picture some collecting underneath her fussy button-up, frosting her back. It's a nice image.

Pearl’s eyes skitter around the bank. Hunting down an escape. Sorry, honey. “You’ll get a breeze on the bike. Let’s head back.”

Rose smiles. She turns back to the water.

“I have to get back soon. Come on.” Something on the Bonneville clicks as Pearl fidgets with it. “I should really -- oh --” she makes a choked noise “-- oh, w-wait what -- what are you--”

Rose faces Pearl again just as she’s unhooking her bra. She adds it to the puddle of her shirt and socks and shoes, there, carefree on the bank. It does nothing to tamp down the heat of course. She gives Pearl her best eyes, borrowing the humid night: her warmest, heaviest, darkest. “Can you swim?”

”What are you doing,” it comes out in a rush, like someone punched it out of her. She’s too slow averting her eyes. Rose can feel her tracing. Little tickles on her bare skin that she croons against. Even in the milky light, Pearl is bright red.

“Come on.” Her cut-offs snag some on the way down her thighs as she seesaws them to her ankles, before she toes them into the pile. Naked, now. All while watching her watch her.

If Pearl wasn’t sweating before, she is now. She’s stuck fast to the side of her bike like her hands are glued and is very much not looking at Rose except for when she is. She might turn around fullbody if she could bring herself to move.

“Come on, honey," Rose croons. 

She would enjoy her soft thighs. All of Rose, syrupy-plush like ripe stonefruit. The way her hair curls feline along her shoulders. Tender pebble teeth along her lip, her ear.

Pearl would like it. Rose knows she would.

Though not without panic. Pearl's eyes flicker to hers for a moment (thigh, ground, eyes, water, hips, ground). Her collared shirt is taut over her chest where she’s sucking in air. 

“You’re breathing heavy.” Rose laughs, silky as a second glass of wine. “Are you sure the jacket was enough?”

She could step closer to Pearl. They’re not even ten paces apart. The bank is soft underfoot, and Pearl is bookended against the Bonneville’s wide leather seat. A deer in the headlights. She would have nowhere further to retreat if Rose closed in, idle and easy and hungry. If Rose pressed her into the leather. If Rose showed her that the world wouldn’t come to a fiery, thundering end if Pearl held her flush against her flesh.

Rose could do that. 

“You should join me if you get too hot, sweetheart.” She steps closer to the water instead. 

It’s _ cool -- _ it’s _ beautiful -- _ not enough bite to shock but enough to make Rose moan a little in delight. The bank slopes faster than she remembers. The slip is easy: Rose rolls lazy onto her back, weaving dreamlike into a backstroke. The water is so soft and star-smelling, marvelous on her skin. Oh, lovely. She floats for awhile, not thinking about time, enjoying. 

Just gorgeous. Smiling. 

After awhile she remembers Pearl. When she looks back to the bank, a little tiger’s eye of a cigarette is burning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sarvis" is the last name of a character from Edward Abbey's "The Monkeywrench Gang," which is exactly what it sounds like. I also like that it sounds like a corruption of "service" because you know I get rock hard over "defect is a verb"-adjacent pearl sentiments
> 
> Pearl has a Bonneville T150! I personally dislike motorcycles so I really can't attest to how well the bandanna tie method works, but according to youtube ppl... it does
> 
> mmmmm get you some internalized homophobia


End file.
